


Fest-

by Laikin394



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Dominance, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, cladois, dark!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-14 01:57:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12997320
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laikin394/pseuds/Laikin394
Summary: Alois doesn't want to celebrate Christmas. Claude insists.And i suck at summaries.Not really a fluff-filled Christmas fic, although it does happen at that time of the year.





	1. Fest-ive

"Really, Claude, you out of all... well, I can't say _people_ , can I?" Alois scoffs at his own pun and shakes his head. He goes back to irritated chatter when he fails to elicit any kind or reaction from his butler. "Regardless, I'm not doing it."

"With all due respect, Your Highness, it's customary."

"So?"

"Thus, it is not a matter of whether you desire to do it or not. It's advisable that you keep up appearances and follow the tradition."

"Appearances, appearances," the boy mocks. He giggles and climbs onto the desk, leaning back to sit on his folded legs. His boots have slid across the papers, crumbling them. Claude doesn't scold him. Alois tips the ink pot over, deliberately slow, watching his butler's face. "Ah yes, appearances," he repeats, putting his finger in the small pool of ink on his desk. There it is - the subtle sign of annoyance, no more than a brief twitch in Claude's lower lids, so quick Alois wouldn't notice if he hadn't been looking for it specifically. And hadn't he spent dozens of hours studying the impassive face of his demon. Claude most likely prides himself in mastering his features to the absolute perfection of an unmoving mask, yet at times even small tricks like this pay off.

"You care about that, don't you, Claude?" Alois singsongs, swiping his stained finger across the man's shirt. It leaves a stripe across the blinding whiteness and Alois's smile grows wider. He looks Claude in the eye, swirling his finger in the spilt ink some more and painting on the starched fabric, taut over the butler's chest. Alas, this time Claude's face remains blank.

"I care for the matters bestowed onto me to be in charge of."

Alois sighs, flicking his finger to splatter the last drops of ink across his butler's attire. He secretly hopes some would get on the demon's face.

"Me. You care about _me_. Is it so hard to say for once, Claude?"

"Your Highness." Claude leans forward in a bow, which could mean anything from agreement to polite resentment of his words.

"Don't just stand there!" Alois snaps. "Clean me!"

"Apologies, master, I thought my shirt would suffice." Alois narrows his eyes and purses his lips. He considers lashing out at Claude for daring to speak to him like that. But the butler's tone is flat and respectful despite the sneer of his words. He dutifully wipes the boy's hand off with the handkerchief he plucks from his breast pocket.

"Will there be pudding?" Alois demands. He scowls at the black half-moons the ink left under his nails. It makes his hands look like those of a peasant; the hands of a boy from a lifetime ago.

"Most certainly. I shall see to it personally."

"And the decorations?"

"Yes. The highest and the greenest tree you could find on your lands."

Claude has cleaned him up the best he could yet he still holds the boy's hand in a loose grip. It calms Alois, taking the edge off his displeasure and turning it into whining instead.

"Claude, I really _really_ don't want to celebrate Christmas. But I will if you say please." The butler remains tight lipped, the silence between them stretching. "Say please, Claude."

Alois studies the golden eyes behind the spectacles that serve as yet another obstacle separating them. He raises onto his knees to be at the same eye level. The hard wood of the desk is already causing him discomfort but he doesn't flinch. He grits his teeth, determined to win this contest. Claude doesn't blink and neither does Alois. The boy's eyes begin to sting, the tears collecting in the corners. They burn his lids but he forces his eyes open still, out of sheer stubbornness.

"I'm waiting, Claude," he hisses. It's difficult to sound menacing with the tear escaping his left eye and tickling down his face. "You must say please."

Alois's vision gets blurry and he can't tell if the faint smile across the man's lips is real or if it's a trick of his imagination. Probably the latter. He knows Claude never smiles. Not for him.

"Don't make me order it." Alois's fists curl around the lapels of Claude's tailcoat. Oh he knows Claude doesn't like it, but what is his muted anger, well-contained and simmering under the surface, when he could coax that simple and sweet word out of his demon?

"Have you already not, master?"

Alois blows his cheeks, shoving Claude away.

"Then do it!"

"If that would please Your Highness."

"It would." Alois finally blinks, shifting to prop himself against his heels and ease off the pressure on his knees. He waits for Claude to beg. To give in and to say please, directly following his order for once. Alois's skin all but prickles with anticipation and he half-shuts his eyes, straining his ears not to miss even the faintest whisper. "Well?" he urges, when there's nothing.

"Pardon, Your Highness? Am I expected to do something?"

"I ordered you to say please and you know it!"

"But I already have."

"What? When?"

"A moment ago. I said if it would _please Y_ our Highness."

"You... Ugh. That is cheating!"

"If my master wishes to call complying with his request cheating, then - yes."

Alois grimace as he thinks. He isn't particularly fond of the whole affair, but then Claude has never asked anything of him. He tilts his head to the side, wondering how long he should make Claude wait for his answer. He doesn't want the demon to feel he agreed too easily. At the same time, Alois hardly has anything else to occupy himself with during the holidays.

“Is this a new deal then? I indulge you with this silly request, going around, being merry and proper, and what do I get in return in the end?”

“The request isn't mine, Your Highness. I dared to voice what is expected from a person in your station. What you get in return is approval of the rest of the nobility that shall endorse your already impeccable reputation.”

“Impeccable, huh?” Alois echoes, studying his dirty hand over his knee. Tainted, he'll always be tainted to them, no matter how many times Claude repeats he's one of the nobility now. “Let's proceed with the farce if you deem it so necessary.”

“Very well, Your Highness. I shall draw a list of activities for the upcoming Christmas week by afternoon.”

“Yes, yes, whatever.”

“I shall leave you to your work now,” Claude tugs on the corner of the ink-splattered sheet, pinned to the desk by Alois's knee. “May I dispose of this? Looks like mister-” he shakes the paper to straighten it, catching the drips of ink with the tray in his hand, “- Hazelburn is not getting his query answered to. A pity.”

Alois snickers, swinging his legs over the edge of the desk. He waits for Claude to drop the ruined letter onto the tray, and takes Claude's hand to slide onto the floor.

“Fine then. Bring the idiotic list. The sooner we get it over with, the better.”

Alois doesn't get any work done, choosing to doodle in the corners of his papers lazily. Why should he care about anyone's complaints or appeals to his kindness and generosity, where there was no one to listen to him or help _him_ when he needed it most?

He begins to shiver when the darkness creeps into the room. It's not late yet, but the twilight chases away the little winter sunlight there was. That's precisely why he hates that season. The biting cold, the vulnerability of the naked trees and prevailing darkness force him to stay indoors, closer to the light, willingly locking himself up in the gilded cage.

Claude appears soon after the greyness of the sky shifts to deeper blues, carrying several candelabras to place around the study. Alois relaxes in an instant, despite being startled by the quiet entry of his demon. He moves soundlessly, with a practiced ease that turns every mundane thing he does in a captivating performance. Alois reclines in his chair, hooded eyes following the graceful movements of his butler. He didn't order him to bring more light, but he wonders if Claude could sense his unspoken discomfort, their bond prompting him what to do.

“Your Highness, call me in when you wish to discuss the plans for the Christmas week.”

“Bring me my tea and we can do it.”

Alois smiles at the customary _“yes, Your Highness”_ and the swift bow in pretense obedience. Hearing those words still gives him a thrill, his stomach fluttering at the smooth voice that enunciates every syllable. He imagines his name rolling off that tongue, Claude's thin lips parting to say it quietly, urgently, ending the word with a hiss. He is pulled out of his day dream when Claude slides the tea tray onto the desk.

“What is that?” Alois snaps, his mouth twisting as he pokes the plump man-like shapes of still warm cookies on a plate.

“Gingerbread, I believe.”

“And what on Earth made you think I would want _that_?”

“Hannah wished to make them for you and in good holiday spirit I have granted her this concession.”

“What?” Alois looks at his butler, bewildered. His mind is racing, trying to process the notion of Claude having any kind of spirit at all, lest the holiday one and negotiating things with Hannah. “What the actual?.. She could try to poison me!”

“I assure you the treats are safe for consumption.”

“Pfft. Then you try one.”

“No need, Your Highness. I would sense her vile intentions should she have any before I could smell the venom.”

“Like you could detect anything over the suffocating cinnamon fragrance.” Alois considers getting up and shoving the wretched cookie in Claude's face, forcing him to eat it. He decides against it, a better idea popping up in his head. “Ugh, this is revolting. Fetch her immediately.”

There is no need for Claude to even leave the room. There is a knock on the door and Hannah steps in timidly after Alois commands her to come in.

“Eavesdropping, weren't you?” he sneers.

“No, Your Highness.”

“Tell me, Hannah, what is wrong with these?” Alois gestures to the plate. Hannah shifts her gaze from the carpet to the desk before looking at her feet again.

“I... I don't know what you mean, Your Highness.”

Alois clicks his tongue.

“They say that creators always project themselves into what they do,” he says with a fake cheer. Hannah lifts her head, her single eye studying the boy with a guarded attention. “And in this case we observe a... discrepancy. Isn't that so, Claude?” Alois glances at his butler, who takes no part in the conversation, yet calmly regards them both. “Why don't you fix it?'

“Your... Your H-highness?” Hannah quacks.

“You're dull,” Alois spits. “Stupid and incompetent. Must I do everything myself?” He picks up the letter knife and brings it down swiftly, stabbing the face of the gingerbread man with enough force to cut through several of them, the tip of the knife scraping against the plate. It sinks into the dough easily, cracking and crumbling it. When he pulls it out, one of the raisins that served the gingerbread man as an eye is impaled on the knife. Alois giggles, bringing the knife to his lips. “That's better,” he pokes the raisin with his tongue, pushing it up and seizing it with his teeth. He chews it and swallows, keeping his eyes fixed on Hannah's paled face. “Now they look like you!”

Thwack. The knife pierces the cookies again. And again. Hannah shivers at each stab, her shoulders jumping up. Her eye is watering and her chest is rising and falling with her quickened breaths, yet she seems unable to tear her gaze from Alois's hand, flying up and down to destroy the cookies she made.

“Get this out of my sight,” Alois commands, quickly growing weary. He tosses the knife away, having it slide across the desk up to the very edge. Claude prevents it from falling down, briskly stepping forward and catching it in his hand to set it back into the box like nothing happened.

Hannah picks up the plate and scatters away. Alois giggles again, pleased with himself. None of the amusement reflects on his butler's face and he huffs, pointing to his cup. Claude wordlessly pours him tea and the boy cradles the cup between his hands, sighing as the warmth of it caresses his fingers.

“What is the agenda then?” he asks, raising the cup to his lips. There is no need to mind his manners with just Claude standing at his side. Alois hunches his back and blows onto the tea before taking a careful sip not to burn himself.

“Your Highness need to send out letters with greetings for the upcoming year. I have taken the liberty to compose a list of people to correspond with.”

“Mhmm,” Alois puts his leg on the table, pushing the tray away. Claude's voice doesn't loose its monotonousness yet the boy can sense his displeasure in the way his butler pushes his glasses up the bridge on his nose.

“Then there's customary appearance at the Royal National Theater.”

“Ugh please tell me it's not a bloody nativity play. Going all the way to London to see that nonsense?”

“Greeting of your people and issuance of small presents.”

“What? I have to gift the peasants?”

“You do not have to do it directly, Your Highness. The stewards can do it in your name.”

“Ah. Excellent. Another excuse for them to dig their filthy hands in my pockets. What else?”

“A Christmas dinner. It would be advisable for you to invite your uncle and...”

“Absolutely not! Claude, I am not dealing with that smelly old pervert.” Alois's hand curls into a ball, his nostrils flaring. “No, no and no!”

“But Your Highness - ”

“I said no! I am not having him here.”

“He is your closest family - ” Alois makes a gurgling noise. Claude continues just as unperplexed, “ - officially.”

“What about Vicont Druid? He's a jolly fellow, I'd not mind his company.”

“You cannot ask the Vicont over without sending an invitation to your uncle Arnold. This would be viewed as in insult.”

Alois rolls his eyes, his face contorting with resent.

“That's out of question then. I'm not negotiating on that.” Claude folds the list and tucks it back into his pocket. “What, is that all you could come up with?” The boy drums his fingers on the desk. “I have an idea.”

“My lord?”

“You implied I had to improve my public image. How about charity work then? Let's pay a visit to an orphanage.”

“Which one would that be, Your Highness?”

“You know, Claude. _The_ orphanage. Don't make me say the name. Just see to it. I want us announced and well-received. And make sure we bring them presents and donate a reasonable amount to secure the children's well-being.” Claude inclines his head and Alois takes it for a sign of agreement. “It is decided then. You will attend all these silly visits with me, won't you, Claude?” He says sternly, trying to make it sound like a command rather than a worried request it is.

Alois watches the demon press his gloved hand over his heart – if he has one – and lean forward in a respectful bow.

“Certainly, Your Highness. A master and his butler are inseparable.”

“Mm, don't you say the sweetest things when you want to butter me up,” Alois teases. Claude lets the comment slide unacknowledged.

Alois finds that despite all the effort Claude put into coaxing his consent to partake in the festive activities, he himself has do very little other than nod in agreement for his servants to proceed with this or that preparation. Gradually, he looses his precaution against the holiday.

A small Christmas tree in the hall and a luxuriously large one in the dining room are set and decorated by the triplets. Hannah sees to the ornaments around the rest of the mansion. Alois secretly enjoys it, but he shouts at her when he catches the maid decorating the windows, drawing snowflakes and tree shapes over the glass in white paint. He screams at Hannah until she quivers and Claude unhurriedly comes to her side, assuring Alois that the windows will be spotless and sparkling clean once the Christmas day passes.

The letters turn out to be a chore. By the time he composes a third one, Alois runs out of flourish phrases and obligatory good wishes. Claude bears his whining and groans and then leans over his shoulder to see what he's got written so far. Alois turns, their faces so close he could rub his nose against his butler's cheek if he chose to.

Tempting as it is, he just admires his flawless features, the proximity allowing him to catch the tiniest furrow of his brows as Claude's eyes move over the lines of the letter. Alois sighs wistfully, tickling his lips with the fluffy end of his quill. He never noticed how long Claude's lashes were. They contrast the sharp lines of his face, softening his expression and adding a deceiving vulnerability to his cold eyes. Alois knows he's ogling and expects to be scolded for it. Despite being grateful for the opportunity to shamelessly look at Claude, he begins to envy the piece of paper that managed to get his undivided attention. He moves his quill, dragging the tip across the demon's cheek.

“I do not see the struggle you described, Your Highness. You choice of words is flawless.” Claude shifts his eyes to meet Alois's. The polite detachment laces his words, but a different emotion lurks in the corners of his eyes. Alois feels annoyed at its elusiveness. He doesn't understand him. The masks he wears and the dutiful phrases shield Claude's real thoughts. It bothers Alois, like an persistent itch he cannot scratch. He slides the quill lower, gliding it over that lying mouth and then touching it back to his own in a ghost of a shared kiss.

“It's boring,” Alois complains, dropping the quill. “And I wished almost the same thing to my dearest... whatever his name in the other letter.”

“The wishes do not have to be original to be welcome.”

“What is the point then? I could have asked you to multiply the letters and send them out. If I'm putting an effort into keeping up the appearances, like you suggested, they should be personalised.”

“That is a very good point, Your Highness. Let's see what can be done.”

Alois agrees it was a _brilliant_ point when Claude begins to prompt him what he should write. He makes the words flow, elegant and witty, composing them into sentences Alois could write himself should he care enough to bring himself to do it.

It's not the words that make the boy's pulse quicken. He feels a sting of pleasure low in his stomach as Claude's breath caresses his cheek. His voice is mesmerising, resonating through Alois and wrapping him up in a cloak of false promises and pictures of happy future things. He shuts his eyes briefly, some foolish hope swelling up in him. He exhales slowly and begins to write, hiding the shadow of his smile by bending over his desk.

The rest is simple. Claude takes away the stack of signed letters and bills and Alois is left to do what he pleases with his time. He's actually glad to go out to see the play, not discouraged by the prospect of a tedious carriage ride to London. Alois asks Claude what he should wear and spends a quarter of an hour complaining about his pick of attire while getting dressed. The dark blue velvet does make his eyes stand out and the matching breeches are probably a wiser choice for the weather than shorts, so his half-hearted nagging dies away quickly.

Claude offers him a pair of leather gloves but Alois refuses to put them on himself. He sticks his hand out, waiting for his butler to slide them on. The short moment his palm rests in Claude's fingers, Alois's ring being pushed back onto his thumb over the leather, is worth the delay in their departure.

Naturally, the play is dull. But the Queen is there and Alois plasters a smile on his face, chirping generous greetings, shaking hands, kissing ladies' hands and faking interest in the scenes unfolding on the stage. He is surprised to find Phantomhive's box deserted and wonders what kind of excuse he had to come up with for his absence. Regardless, attending the performance when the Queen's Guard Dog is absent gives him a feeling of superiority. Alois doesn't squirm in his seat even once, keeping his hands on the plush armrests of the chair and clapping enthusiastically when the play is over. He can sense Claude looking at him more than once, the intensity of his stare making hair at the back of the boy's neck stand on its end.

“I hope that satisfied your obnoxious idea of how an Earl should behave,” Alois sneers, getting into the carriage. It's rather crammed inside, thus his knees bump against Claude's legs when the carriage begins rocking. Alois smirks and nudges his butler with his knee purposefully this time, amused at the futile attempt Claude makes to move away. “I thought it would never end.” He claws at his tie, its simple black silk too bland and so far off of his preferred greens and purples.

“Ah. So it was all for my sake then, Your Highness?”

“Of course not!” Alois throws the tie at Claude who makes no move to catch it. Both of them watch it sink to the floor, the silk soaking up the slushed snow and mud. Alois notices that Claude's shoes are as shiny as ever where the tips of his own are splattered with dirt. Ah well, he never liked the tie to begin with. He giggles at the idea of thrusting his foot onto Claude's lap and demanding his boots to be cleaned until something else catches his eye. “What are those?” Alois points at the creamy squares of paper sticking out of Claude's pocket.

“I meant to give them back to you at the manor.”

Alois leans over to seize the paper. The carriage rocks and he stumbles over. Claude catches him by his upper arms, steadying the boy. Alois hops onto the bench next to him, discarding his top hat as its rim butts into Claude's shoulder at the next swing of the car on the road.

“Invitations to Christmas Eve balls,” Alois hums, flipping through the stack. “I wonder how many I would _not_ receive had I not attended that bloody play. Hypocrites,” he clicks his tongue, throwing the cards one by one onto the floor after scanning through them. “Garbage, and this one too,” he scowls at the names and drops the rest of the invitations, pushing them into the murky puddle on the carriage floor. “There is no way in hell I'd want to show my face in any of those houses.”

“Language, master,” Claude says non-nonchalantly, not sparing him a glare. He looks straight ahead, as if Alois wasn't even there, while he chose to glance out of the window when the boy was opposite of him.

“Or what?” Alois hisses. “You will leave me without desert?”

Claude purses his lips tighter. It must be a trick of light reflecting in his spectacles, but his eyes seem to glint for a moment when he adjusts his glasses.

“Maybe I shall do just that.”

“Ooh.” Alois releases the breath he didn't notice he was holding. “Claude, have you just... quipped?”

“You ought to know me better than that, Your Highness.”

Alois chews his lip. Its odd to have Claude speak like that and he has no idea what he should reply.

“I-I'm cold,” he says. It's partially true, as the chilly seat makes him squirm, the fabric of his overcoat helping little against the cold. He can feel the gust of wind on his face as it creeps in through the gaps in the windows and the carriage door. Alois makes a show of clattering his teeth with an urgency of a freezing man. “Do something about that. Now!”

Silently, Claude shrugs his own plain coat off. He swishes it to wrap the fabric around Alois's shoulders. The boy lets out a soft gasp as his face is pressed against Claude's shirt when his butler adjusts the coat, smoothing out the folds. It feels like an embrace, the pressure on his shoulders sending a shiver of excitement through Alois. He smiles, wiggling to burrow down into the improvised cocoon and inhaling the faint smell that clings to the coat's lapels in what he hopes to be a discreet way.

“Why, thank you,” he purrs, batting his eyes. “You are most agreeable today, Claude. I'm starting to grow suspicious.”

“Have I ever been anything but?..”

“Oh yes. Constantly.”

“I am profoundly sorry if my service has been perceived as such, Your Highness.”

“Sure you are,” Alois lulls. He can see the milky puffs of air Claude exhales. Does he feel the cold and if so, does it pain him? “What about my hands?”

“Shall I discard my gloves for you to wear as well?”

“Don't you know that the best way to warm up is skin to skin?”

“Only when it is emergency.”

“How do you know it isn't? What if I lose a finger? Is that what you want?” Alois waits for Claude to comply, but the man is unyielding. “Fine!” he spits, hiding his hands under the coat and tucking them into his armpits. At least he got that much.

Alois reluctantly returns the coat to Claude when he catches a glimpse of the lights of his mansion before the road takes a sharp turn. The sloshing sound of wheels in the mud is soon replaced by the clicking of them against the paved walk that leads to the grand entrance. As they slow down, Claude stands up to open the doors and to get out of the carriage first. He has to hunch down awkwardly not to hit his head on the ceiling. Alois giggles at the sight, earning himself a glare. Claude jumps out of the carriage, his coat draped over his arm, and offers his hand.

“What do you think you are doing?” Alois wrinkles up his nose, crossing his arms over his chest. “Do you expect me to step out in the mud?” Apparently, so. Claude keeps his hand in the air, palm up, waiting for Alois to take it. “I refuse.” He stomps his foot, bracing himself up and preparing to fight should Claude decide to drag him out by force. The man remains immobile, only his nostrils flaring as suppresses a snarl. Or at least Alois hopes he does.

“Your Highness, I am afraid I can do nothing about that. I do not control the weather, unfortunately.”

“T-too bad.” Alois turns his nose up, trying to suppress his shaking. He is freezing, standing out like that even in his fur-trimmed coat. His cheeks are turning numb and his fingers prickle from the cold.

“I could order the dirt to be cleaned, yet would take hours to wash the cobbles from here to the doors. You might indeed lose your digits to a frost bite.”

Alois narrows his eyes, anger bubbling up in him. There is a mocking edge to the words, despite the matter-of-fact delivery. He can see the wisps of warm air rising up from Claude's mouth as he speaks and despite his butler being a lot more under-dressed for the weather, Alois has no doubt as to who would be the first one to surrender to the chill.

“Can't you find a solution, Claude? I think it's as obvious as...” Alois gives a vague shake of his hand in the air, not troubling himself with finishing that sentence. “You will have to carry me.”

Claude doesn't rush to comply. He blinks, tucking away a strand of hair the wind throws into his face. He continues watching Alois, as if trying to determine how much of a joke or an actual order the suggestion is.

“As you command,” he finally agrees.

Alois squeals as he is picked up by his waist. His stomach drops at the swift movement as he loses the feel of the ground under his feet. An unwelcome fear of Claude dropping him or squeezing him hard enough to have him snap in half comes as an afterthought. He instinctively reaches forward, clenching his butler's shoulders and throwing his legs around him. His body goes rigid, which still doesn't cease his quivering. He's clinging to Claude for dear life, crossing his ankles and grasping his own wrists, securing himself in place.

“Master?” comes an inquisitive call, but Alois knows it cannot be. Claude is never surprised and it just confirms the boy's suspicion that he pushed his luck too far this time and something bad is about to happen. He locks his arms around Claude's neck harder, panting. “Now, now. What is this about?” Claude's breath is warm at the base of his neck, right where his collar left an exposed strip of skin under his ear. One of the hands that supported his back slides up in what Alois thinks to be a soothing gesture. Instead, Claude tries to pry the boy's hands off his neck. “I cannot carry you like this,” he explains at the noise of a protest.

Claude bounces him up, maneuvering the boy's body around to adjust his hold on him. With one arm around Alois's back and the other one under his knees, Claude begins walking towards the mansion, nothing in his face or movements betraying the strain he must feel carrying the boy's weight.

“You must find me ludicrous,” Alois mumbles, toying with the ends of Claude's cravat. He feels quite childish for his whimsical request and even more so for the sudden scare of being lifted. Most of all he doesn't want to admit he's enjoying it, already seeking other excuses to have Claude carry him to his room. Alois looks up when the reply doesn't come. Claude glances at him as his heels click on the steps of the manor.

“That is not the word I'd use.”

“Oh.” Alois moves the pads of his fingers up, pressing them to the warm skin over the man's collar. It's impossibly, inhumanly smooth. He senses the faint throb of his pulse, evenly paced, nothing like his own. “Does it mean you don't think me impertinent or you would simply choose a different word to describe the same thing?”

The boy doesn't get to hear the response. The doors swing open and one of the triplets – not that Alois ever bothered to tell them apart or learn their names – greets them by lighting their way with a candle.

“Is young master unwell?” The question is directed at Claude. Alois grunts, finding it disrespectful. He isn't some kind of silent dimwit, unaware of when people talk about him.

“I'm right here!” he yells. “Since you are so concerned, do take care to address your master properly!”

The servant blinks, his empty, glass-like eyes shifting to look at Alois.

“Welcome home, young master,” he offers calmly, bending in half in a deep bow. “Is young master unwell?”

“I'm not unwell, you imbecile.” The moment is ruined and Alois squirms in Claude's arms. “Put me down already!”

His boots leave a trail of dirty imprints on the marble floor. Alois looks back, both men standing there with blank, expressionless faces. Horrid, stupid demons. He tingles with perverse joy for giving them more work to do and elicits a dark chuckle, imagining the triplets on their knees mopping the floor.

“What are you looking at?” he groans when Hannah peeks at him from the passageway leading to the dining room. She moves back soundlessly, as if not to provoke him. On a whim, Alois drops his coat down, aiming to have it slide over the muddy shapes of his steps.

“Claude!” he shouts as he climbs the stairs without turning around to check if his butler follows. He simply knows he does. “I think I've had enough of this day. I'm ready for bed.”

Alois's anger deflates by the time he reaches his bedchamber. He feels weary of everything. Of trying to think over his next step and selecting his words, of allowing the public to glimpse what they expect to see, even when it has nothing to do with who he really is. He lowers himself on the bed, sinking into the softness of the mattress and waits for Claude to remove his clothes.

The sight of the man kneeling in front of him evokes only the shadow of his usual satisfaction. He nudges the butler's shin with the tip of his other boot when he feels he's been working on his laces for too long. Alois finds no patience in himself tonight, although he would enjoy such thorough attention on any given day. Claude peels his boots after another kick and wraps his fingers around the boy's stock-clad foot.

“Still cold, master?”

“Like you care whether I fall sick or not.”

“That would be most inconvenient.”

“Is that what I am to you, Claude? An inconvenience?” Exasperation raises its head again, building up faster than Alois could control it, even as he draws long breaths through his teeth. “Answer me!”

“No, Your Highness.” Claude turns to add more logs to the fire, stepping back when several crackling sparks shoot out and almost land on his shoes. “I was merely concerned whether the room felt warm enough to your liking.”

“Concerned?” Alois hisses as Claude returns to pluck open the buttons of his vest and then shirt. He takes hold of the butler's cravat, yanking him forward until their noses are inches apart. “Like a gourmet would be concerned about his meal?” He can catch his own reflection in Claude's glasses and tilts his head back to make it disappear. It's Claude's eyes he wishes to see, not his own contorted features. If only he could penetrate his thoughts, uncover the secrets that hide behind the peculiar golden shade of his irises. “Isn't that all I am to you? A dish ready to be served, a slab of meat for you to sink your teeth in?”

The corners of Claude's eyes crinkle up, as if he was smiling, but when the boy looks down, the seam of the demon's mouth is pressed into the same impassive line.

“Not quite, master,” he says quietly. The tip of his tongue peeks between his teeth, as if he were about to lick his lips but restrained himself. Alois knows he isn't far off. The demon's hunger is seeping through his features even when they remain unchanged. Claude continues working on the buttons of his shirt, unclasping Alois's suspenders and taking articles of clothing off just as meticulously as before he allowed his control to slip.

“What am I forgetting then?” Alois demands. “It's simply infuriating! You never give me a direct answer. Always playing on words, always twisting my commands. I'm sick of it. Argh, just let me be!” He smacks Claude's hands away as Claude tries to put a nightgown over his head. He glares at his butler, chest heaving. “Answer me!”

“What would you like me to say, Your Highness?”

“The truth!”

“About what?” Claude allows his eyes to slide down the boy's naked torso. It's not a look of appreciation, but there is greed in it. The kind Alois cannot find a name for, unlike lust or anything he could recognise.

“Do you... do you want - this?” Alois moves his head to his right, stretching his neck out. His fingers dance on his skin, stroking it provocatively. Claude's lips part as he bares his teeth, the fangs impossibly white and long. “If... if you want this, just come and take it,” he whispers, his voice suddenly hoarse.

Claude takes a step forward, his movements fluid. Predatory. He looks at his offering, probably noting the trembling fingers and the veins pulsing under the thin skin. He leans towards the boy, arms planted on both sides of him. Alois fidgets in the face of the impending doom he called upon himself, but it's more due to sweet ache of anticipation than fear. He screws his eyes shut, swallowing the lump in his throat.

“I must decline,” Claude whispers into his ear just as the boy expects those fangs to graze his skin. Pulling back, he slides the nightgown over Alois. Reaching inside, Claude guides the boy's arms into the sleeves, fastening the buttons all the way up.

“Wh...why not?” Alois drawls as his stockings and breeches are discarded and Claude flips the corner of the blanket over.

“It is not time. Not yet.”

“You don't wish it to be my choice, do you?” Alois gets under the covers, shivering the the feel of cool sheets. His toes find the inviting warmth of a water bottle, tucked and hidden at the foot of the bed. Such caring and thoughtful servants he has. Such dutiful lying creatures, scattering around, diligent until the time comes and they devour his soul.

“Do not forget we haven't finished all that was planned.”

“Like?”

“The visit to the orphanage. And the Christmas dinner.”

“Ah. That.” Alois pulls the blanket up higher, hiding himself up to his chin. “Claude?”

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“You will go there with me, right?” The incline of his butler's head is enough of an answer. “And we will come prepared?”

“If Your Highness means the presents, I have made the arrangements.”

“Not that, Claude,” the boy mutters groggily. “You really don't understand what any orphan boy would want, do you?”

Claude frowns, but doesn't ask him anything else. For the best, Alois thinks lazily. He wouldn't be able to convey to a demon the importance of affection. 

 


	2. Fest-ering

Uneasiness plants itself firmly in Alois, robbing him of a good night's rest. His stomach feels queasy the and the lump in his throat won't go away no matter how many times he coughs or desperately tries to gulp it down. He begins to fret there's something wrong with him; perhaps he's falling ill. The skin of his forehead is feverish to the touch, but it may be due to the pads of his fingers feeling too chilly, almost detached from his digits.

"Claude, I think I better stay in bed this morning," the boy whines, ignoring his servant's greeting. Alois tossed and turned, awake long before his butler appeared in his room to dress him, so it's hardly a 'good morning'. Especially since it's still dark outside. “I feel unwell.”

Claude approaches him wordlessly, the hard line of his jaw and disinterested eyes adding to the tightness in Alois's chest. He doesn't care, of course he doesn't. But he will pretend to if ordered.

Claude combs back through his disarray of hair, getting it out of the boy's eyes. His index finger rests under Alois's left ear, while the pressure of the base of his hand at his jaw coaxes the boy to lift his chin.

"What symptoms are you experiencing?"

"I'm running a fever. My heart is unsteady and my stomach is upset."

"You do not feel warm to the touch, Your Highness. And your heart isn't out of sorts. Are you sure it's your stomach and not you who's upset at the idea of following through with your obligations?"

"What? Hey!" Alois shrieks when the covers are thrown off him in a precise movement and a pair of firm hands pulls him in an upright position. "Claude, how dare you treat me like this! Like... I'm not some doll to be clothed," he huffs, realising that his complaint comes across as childish. That is precisely what his butler is here for; dressing him for the day. He expects Claude to take the bait and bicker with him. "Claude!"

"Yes, Your Highness?"

"Apologise for your behaviour!"

The butler pushes his glasses back on his face but continues with his task of dressing Alois, untroubled.

"Cordial apologies that proceeding with my duties has upset you so, master," he says flatly. Alois feels every word dripping with venom, but he knows his argument will be met with the cold politeness. "If you wish to stay in bed, I will bring you breakfast here."

"No. Well. What's the point now," Alois mumbles, stroking the satin of the shirt Claude has managed to put on him despite his thrashing. "I'm up anyways."

Claude finishes dressing him, meticulous enough not to be scolded but performing the task absent-mindedly.

"Say, Claude, does it ever get boring? Is it incredibly dull to follow the same ritual time and again, or do you find comfort in repetitive things?" Claude pauses for a moment as if he tried to listen to himself and determine which it was. He resumes pulling the silk of the boy's tie in a bow, no words spoken."Or are you just a shell of a man, incapable of any feelings at all?"

Alois hopes to see the anger in Claude's eyes, but there's nothing, his pupils remaining a golden-rimmed void.

"I see now that my master is unwell." Claude rises from his kneeling position. "It is my service you wanted. My skills you dealt for. Not existential conversations that would satisfy your curiosity."

"That is no way for a proper butler to speak," Alois frowns, but allows for his boots to be laced. He rises for his suspenders to be fastened and his coat to be smoothed down.

"On the contrary. A butler posses no attitude towards his duties, a humble servant through and through.”

"But you're more than that, Claude."

"Haven't Your Highness implied they wished for me to be proper a moment ago?"

"You're making assumptions on my behalf. That's not what I asked."

"Breakfast has already been served, master. If it is my opinion you desire, I would hate for it to go cold in equal measure as falling behind our schedule would be a source of my discomfort."

"Claude!" Alois repeats with irritation.

"Your Highness?!"

"Argh." Alois walks through the door Claude holds for him. He never gets a direct response, the wretched demon finding a way to avoid his orders, juggling the words to reveal nothing of what he is asked.

Alois gets his revenge by pointing out that his oatmeal is too sweet and his tea is too strong. If his remarks scrape against Claude's pride, there is no sign of it.

His discomfort returns on their way to the orphanage. Alois is grateful he ate little, the rattle of the carriage on bumpy roads affecting his digestion poorly. He presses his gloved hand over his mouth. He would hate to retch in Claude's lap, mostly because he would have to deal with the acidic aftertaste on his tongue for the rest of the track. The smell of leather calms him somewhat, and Alois closes his eyes, concentrating on his deep inhales.

"Almost there, master," Claude announces. Alois's eyes fly open and he shifts to peek out of the window. It doesn't look familiar, but he has no doubts Claude is right in his estimation.

Whatever giddiness he felt is suppressed by the feel of dread. It is illogical, groundless, for no one would harm him in any way, not when he could drop a command to the demon beside him. Alois shrugs, pulling his coat tighter around his chest as if to shut away the chill of the past creeping behind him, short of his sight.

"Claude. I don't think I can do this."

"I do not believe your purpose here to be unachievable."

Alois scowls but then manages a weak smile.

"I... I think I'll pass."

"Any particular reason why Your Highness had a change of heart?"

"I don't have to say explain myself to you, Claude."

"No. But I would advise you understand your own motives."

The boy sucks in his cheeks, quiet for a moment as he contemplates answering.

"What if... What is the rest of the boys from the Trancy Manor a-are still there?" Alois looks at his hands in his lap, leather gloves creaking as his tweaks his fingers. "What if - someone recognised me?" He shifts his eyes to Claude's face, serene as ever. "How would you feel?" Each word the boy drops slices through him, but does not disturb his butler in the slightest. "Speak up!" Alois feels the heat of the sigil on his tongue, the anger and his determination to find out the truth turning his command into a binding order.

"Humiliated," Claude says slowly. "Ashamed," the boy leans back in the seat. As unpleasant as that confession is, it reflects the fracture of his own emotions. "On your behalf. I'd consider myself incompetent. For failing to realise that no matter how much you polish and shape a dirty shard of glass you picked off a street, its shine is brief and impotent. Nothing like a noble diamond."

"What are you saying?"

"That I should have foreseen it and perhaps refrained from wasting my talents."

"Are you calling me unworthy of time of which a demon has an eternity?" Alois curls his hands into fists, his voice rising. "And regret our deal by calling me weak?"

"Just like any human."

Alois bends in half, the air leaving his lungs with a wheeze as if he's been punched. He regains his composure quickly, straightening not to expose the back of his neck to the demon who could very well take advantage of his vulnerability.

"So this is how things are, Claude." Where there should have been bitterness on his tongue, he feels nothing. Nothing other than the weight of their contract mark still present, still alien after the years. "Is that why you won't take my soul, as it no longer suits your tastes? No more," the boy raises his hand when he thinks Claude is about to add more salt to his wounds. "I don't care to hear other foul things you intend to speak of. Stay here. I do not wish you to be seen at my side."

Alois manages to push the heavy carriage door open. He jumps off the steps, less elegantly as he'd preferred, and begins walking towards the small bleak building of the orphanage without looking back.

He marches towards the people standing at the door - the director and his assistants, or whoever - contorted in a bow with crude false smiles across their faces that would look more befitting upon a puppet's mug. Alois doesn't burden himself with smiling, the frown stiffening his features. He suppresses a groan when he realises he hasn't got on him the money or the presents he intended to bring.

"Please excuse me for a moment, kind sirs," he says sweetly to their welcoming greetings, words sticking to his palate. Alois turns around, going back to the cursed carriage. There is no way Claude doesn't see him approach, but he makes no move to open he door for him or help otherwise. He grits his teeth, knowing all too well the butler's lack of assistance will be blamed on the order he gave. He told Claude to stay in place, which was most likely interpreted as to remain in the very position Alois left him in.

The handle bends under the boy's hand on a third tug. Alois hopes it isn't obvious and the heat in his face, along with the rising colour, will be blamed on the cold that pinches his skin.

"Having a rather short visit, master?" Claude says airily. Had there not been people watching him, Alois would strike the demon across his face.

"I require my coin purse, Claude," Alois hisses through his teeth, the words slurred. He thinks if the bastard pushes him further and asks him to repeat himself, he's going to break into shouting despite the restricting proper manners. "And for you to bring what was prior purchased for the boys."

Alois spots a gleam of satisfaction in Claude's eyes as he transfers the purse into the boy's stretched hand.

"Does this mean you recall your order for me to dwell in the carriage?" The phrase suggests the scorn towards swift changes in circumstance and commands.

"No! I'll ask the coachman." Alois gives the door a mighty push, slamming it shut. The fingers in the white glove are removed from the door frame before it snaps over them, through even the the missed opportunity to damage them holds some joy in it.

Alois wills himself not to think about it. He will rob Claude of satisfaction to humiliate him any further. He walks towards the building once again, carrying himself with more dignity and calm. He can do just fine on his own, even if for the sake of spiting that insufferable demon.

Alois briefly considers apologising, but discards that idea. He finds it below his rank to acknowledge his silly trip back with additional excuses. Alois notices the man's eyes, as well as two of his assistants', slide over the purse dangling below his hand. The boy's smile grows wider and he shakes his wrist, the coins jiggling merrily. Ah, that sweet sound is going to be his security for a warm welcome. Now he is certain the director would wait for him for an entire day if needed.

Alois is escorted into the building. It's almost hot inside, or perhaps it seems so only in the contrast to the crisp winter air.

"M'lord, if I may express our deepest..."

Alois doesn't listen to the man. He scrunches his nose up, both at the distasteful way the man addresses him with boring cut-out phrases, too long for him not to stutter over, and the smell that hits his nose. He expected to find the building reeking of spoiled vegetables and rags over unwashed bodies, the air stale with desperation. That's how Alois remembers it from the short months he spent there captive. The orphanage is different from what his memory preserved. His lungs fill with the sharp smell of cleaning solutions. Nothing like the powders Hannah would use, but more of cheap acids that get the job done. He pokes the floors with the tip of his boot. The layer of dirt is gone, other shaved off or scrubbed impossibly clean. There is a remaining whiff of paint as well and Alois wonders what piece of furniture or the wall he should lean against to get dirty and witness the fright upon the director's face.

"M'lord," the man repeats and the boy frowns. He has never enjoyed this particular title. "We are beyond joyous to have our prayers heard and have you as our patron."

"Mister -"

"Forrester, m'lord."

"Mister Forrester, I do believe both of our prayers have been heard. I realise how hard it is for someone to lose their parents. You know my dear Papa has left this world so unexpectedly after him and I were reunited." Alois wants to compliment his shaky voice with a tear. He has to hold back as he's interrupted.

"Oh yes, yes, such a tragedy," the man rushes to reassure him. "It must still be too hard for you to speak of it." Alois spins on his heels to face away, pretending to dab at his eyes with a handkerchief. "Would you care for a cup of tea at my office, m'lord? It's nothing, but it may be of a distraction."

"No brew can soothe those heart aches," Alois complains, rubbing his eyes with handkerchief to redden them up. He gradually turns back, sniffling as his lips quiver. "Thank you for your kind offer. I... I must not be selfish, as I come here to... To do what I can. Despite my sorrow. To offer a helping hand and mend the things that can be mended."

Alois nearly bursts into laughter as he sees Mr. Forrester shake his head in sympathy. A small crowd has gathered around them, most likely made out of the few workers there are. Alois hears a sob at his well-timed pitiful stutter. He gloats at their easy belief. Naturally, they are too dense to sense the hidden mockery in his words, but he plays the part of a grief-striken son to perfection to have even those aware of the size of his inheritance to spare a tear for the poor boy. Alois knows he's overdoing it this time, the phrases too cliché, yet no one is about to call him out on the ringing lies.

"I... I would like to see the boys, if... If possible. To offer them the words of reconciliation, if I might, and to borrow their courage." The door behind Alois opens, the air ruffling his collar. He catches the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor and assumes the coachman has brought the gifts.

"Certainly, certainly, m'lord."

The director hurries to show him the way and the little crowd parts to let them pass. Alois doesn't have to play humble, the nervousness catching up with him. He curls his fingers over his shoulder, beckoning the coachman to follow.

Alois expected there would be more inhabitants, but the as they pass through the hall, most dormitories are empty.

"Where are we going?" Alois demands as they reach the end of the hall.

"I was thinking of gathering the boys for you in the kitchen.”

"Do not trouble yourself. I can visit them in their rooms. I came to see them, not the other way around."

"M'lord?" Mr. Forrester's confusion seems genuine. As Alois continues looking at him, the soft look changing into a glare that demands obedience, he surrenders. "As you wish, sir."

They trace back their steps. The director pushes the nearest door, entering without the knock.

"Boys," he booms, making them freeze on the spot. "This is..."

Alois raises his hand, silencing the man.

"Mister Forrester, if you could please leave us alone?" Alois says sweetly.

"M'lord, if I may advise you, I would..." the man's voice grows weaker and weaker until it dies away under Alois's deadpan stare. As much as the boy resents to admit it, some of Claude's ways he picked up are effective.

The director leaves without another word. The air in the room changes, yet the tension remains. Alois can sense the guarded interest, but he knows how quickly it could morph into aggression. Not that he feared that. He comprehends the need to defend what he has in his possession. It still prevails in him even after the year of having the world at his fingertips.

Alois clears his throat, choosing something neutral to say for a greeting.

"Are you a boy or a girl?" a voice calls. There's no cutting edge to the words, spoken out of sheer curiosity, but Alois's head snaps up as he tries to spot the person addressing him. It's almost impossible to say who it was as many boys grin in amusement. He studies their faces, struggling to recall if any of them appear familiar. It was so dark in the manor's dungeons, he probably wouldn't recognise them in the broad sunlight at the time, so it's useless to puzzle over it now. Alois lets his eyes glide over them regardless, bitter-sweet sense of shared past washing up on him. Silly how he feels a connection to someone who may see him for the first time.

"Last time I checked I was pretty confident that I was a lad."

"How 'bout you drop your drawers so that we can be sure too?"

This time Alois spots the speaker. It's the boy sitting cross legged on a bed to Alois's left. He doesn't look the brightest, if crude features of his face and eyes set too far apart can't be taken as indicators of an intellect. He is quite bulky, despite being around Alois's age. The broad shoulders and the thick fingers that would make for an impressive first most likely moved him to a leadership position among boys.

Occasional snickers ripple through the room. Some try to mask it behind their hand or disguise it as a cough, others grin at the boy who spoke quite openly.

Alois begins giggling and the boys join him. His laughter, however, gets a pitch higher, spilling from his lips after the rest of the boys grow tired of the joke and fall silent. Alois laughs, but it is hollow and fake. The laughter pours out of him, stripped of any humour. It makes the skin between his shoulder blades crawl. It must be equally unsettling for the boys, but they don't dare look at him now, studying their hands, lips pursed, or picking the freshly patched sheets. Alois gloats for a moment until he feels even more alienated than when he crossed the threshold.

"Anyways. I didn't come just to crack jokes. Here," he reaches out into the bag dropped behind him. Fishing out some candy he offers it to the boy nearest to him. "Want some?"

The boy must be Luka's age, no more than 5 at best. He clearly wandered into the older boys' dormitory. He eyes the candy in Alois's hand but doesn't take it, squirming away.

"Ah." Alois plucks a colourful wrap from his outstretched palm, bringing it to his eyes. "Caramel," he says with disgust. "I hate those too," he adds with a smile and tosses it over his shoulder. The candy thuds against the wall, dropping onto the floor. No one laughs this time.

The silence isn't complete. The beds creak and there is an occasional sigh, yet Alois feels isolated. He tries to see himself trough their eyes, to remember what it actually was like to be in their skin, but he can't. Alois finds nothing he could relate to now, struggling to understand how they see him. Is he a show off to them, a flamboyant rich boy following his whimsical idea of showing care? They are cautious but somehow detached. He could as well be looking at them through a glass wall.

"Well..." he scowls, throwing the sweets onto the bed. He didn't mean for the gesture to be patronising, but it is. It makes him frown further, imagining what it came across like - a spoiled child throwing a bone to a homeless dog. They will hate him for it. "Share with others... Whatever you find in there."

Alois kicks the bag, storming out of the room. He feels a dull ache in his chest as he tries to inhale, but his lungs won't expand. He orders himself to breathe, to calm down. It's silly, really. He notices he's biting his cheek only when he tastes salt on his tongue. That won't do. Alois squeezes his eyes shut. Claude was right. He _is_ weak.

The thought soothes him. Quench a fire with another flame and hurt with more ache. No. He no longer feels the pain of Claude's words. If he is so weak, the joke is on the demon. Choosing someone so bland only not to be able to harvest his soul for over a year speaks more about his lack of prowess than Alois's.

The boy opens his eyes to find Mr. Forrester looking at him.

"What happened, m'lord? What was not to your liking?"

"Why would you assume something like that?" Alois snaps. The man shuts his mouth. Alois remembers he ought to be kind and generous, so he better play the role to the end. "Apologies, Mr. Forrester. I've been feeling under the weather lately. H-holiday are a burden when you... When you have no one to share them with." The words are not completely false despite being seasoned with lies. "May I... If that is not too much to ask, naturally... Take up on that offer to share a cup of tea? Tea never fails to make improvements in an instant."

"Certainly, certainly, m'lord. If Your Highness would just follow me." Alois's lips twitch at that title, but the man is too busy leading the way to notice. "One moment, I will fetch your tea at once."

The director's office appears to be in a much better state from the rest of the orphanage. Alois drums his fingers on the hard wood desk and then slides his index finger over the empty center of it, looking for dust. There is none. In fact, the whole room looks too neat, unfitting for the man, which makes the boy suspect he doesn't spend much time in here, if any. Alois unwinds the ropes of the purse from his wrist, dropping the bag onto the table where it would be most noticeable.

He sheds his gloves, rudely stretching them out across the desk.

"I was told you haven't occupied that position for long, Mr.Forrester," Alois draws when the man tiptoes back into the room, holding the tray with both hands. The cups and the tea pot rattle nevertheless. Claude would cope with the task so much better, his pace not affected by the tray he could balance on his fingertips. Alois silently scolds himself for it. Claude, Claude, Claude - like his life is centered around that creature. The next sentence comes out angrier than he intended, his frustration seeping through. "May I inquire what happened to your predecessor?"

"I'm afraid I do not know the details, m'lord. He moved to the country, but his leave was made with such haste that people gossip he simply vanished."

"Terrible." Alois grimaces as he takes a sip of his tea. Even with his tastes far from refined, the oily bitterness of the brew makes his stomach turn. He wants to ask for a handkerchief to wipe his tongue.

"Indeed, m'lord. That's what common folk does. Can't be helped. I believe it's just a way for them to express their envy."

Alois frowns, putting the cup back onto the table. He'll be damned if another drop insults his taste buds.

"And how do you find it, Mr. Forrester? Your position?"

"Oh. I adore young boys." Alois squints, but he doesn't sense anything in the phrase other than overplayed enthusiasm. He reminds himself that not everyone loves children in the twisted sense Earl Trancy did. "It's always bitter sweet to part with them as you grow close, m'lord, but we've been finding more and more homes for the boys, especially before the holidays. Here," the man reaches under his desk, pulling out a drawer. He carefully places a thick ledger on the desk, mindful of Alois's cup. "This week only, we have helped three of the youngest find a new family."

"Lovely," Alois mutters. He doubts it's all so smooth and joyous. Opening the ledger, he stares at the neat list of names. The dates on top of the sheet are recent, but they hold little interest or meaning to him. Alois flips the pages, going further, the grainy paper unpleasant on his fingertips.

"You must have another one."

"M'lord?"

"You heard me. Show me the full records."

"But how..." the man seems genuinely puzzled but the firm order in Alois's voice makes him sheepish. "I mean, this isn't something - uhh." Alois crosses his arms, drumming his fingers on his arm. He maliciously enjoys the director's fidgeting, even if his own is masked my annoyance. "My... My predecessor did keep a different ledger."

"Predecessor. Are you afraid to speak his name?"

"N-no, m'lord, but..." Mr. Forrester jerk his shoulders as if trying to throw off something unpleasant. He walks away to a cabinet nested in the corner of the room. He has to bend over, rummaging through the cluster of things. He finally finds the ledger, holding the book with both hands to present it to Alois.

"That's better."

This ledger is the one the boy expected to see. It's older, thicker and paints a more grim picture. The names of deceased or runaways are bluntly stated by an untrembling hand. The sharp letters of the faded ink scrape Alois's eyes, but he turns the pages over, silencing the cries of the past. Ah, there it is. His old name blemishes the page, fitting in the column of other faceless ghosts.

Alois taps the name and the single digit of age indicated next to it. Surely, he couldn't have been just nine. He scratches the paper, but the number remains. Nine. He didn't realise it has been that long.

"M'lord?"

Alois pays the man no mind. He notices that him and the other names do have something in common. Opposite each one there is a word that describes his life to a point. _Taken_. Alois begins giggling.

"M'lord?"

The boy's snickers grow louder. He shakes with them, the laughter rattling through him. Is it because he is no more than a dressed up a doll, his insides picked and eaten by the late Earl?

"M'lord?" the man repeats louder, growing more concerned. "Is something wrong?"

Precious. _Everything_ is wrong, but that dumb parrot will never be able to comprehend it.

Alois snaps the ledger shut. He picks it up by the spine, pinching it between his thumb and forefinger. He stretches his arm, holding the vile book as far from his body as possible.

"M'lord!" the idiot squeaks when Alois drops the ledger into the fireplace.

"Shut up." Alois watches the flames lick up the cover, crackling over the leather.

"I've seen enough." Alois wipes his hands on his sides, wishing he could wash them. He takes his gloves from the desk. "Keep the gold, Mr. Forrester. But if I were you - which, thankfully, I am not - I'd mind the expenditure." Alois smacks the man's chest with his gloves. "One penny goes into your own pocket - and you'd be following the destiny of your dear predecessor. Have no doubt, I will _know_ if you do." The man gulps audibly and it forces another chuckle out of Alois. "Good day to you, Mr. Forrester. And Merry Christmas."

 _Taken_.

Alois savours the word as he walks back to the carriage. Taken. Five letters that have summarised all of his hardships, eloquent but not giving away much. Someone actually took care to mark it on a page. Alois subconsciously slows his steps.

The word resonates through him. He was indeed _taken_ from the world, but never put in a place he belonged.

It's foolish, but he expected to get some joy out of this visit. Or at least feel nostalgic or angered - anything other than drained. Today simply served to underline the abyss between his old life and the new. Were he to attend a Christmas dinner at any house he was invited to, he would feel the same. Unwanted and unfitting, only in case with the stiff noblemen, very much below their station.

Alois gets into the carriage and lowers himself on the seat. His stomach flutters as Claude looks at him with his yellow unblinking eyes that would suit a snake. Alois opens his mouth but he finds he has nothing to say. He slowly exhales and knocks on the panel behind his back to indicate they are ready to leave.

"Your Highness?"

Rich, deep voice. Imposed servitude. Skilled hands. Alois used to think that was his ultimate comfort. He could very well find a new home not within decorated walls, but a person. He would be unable to open up his fragmented soul to anyone, while the demon could read it like a book. Claude would hardly understand him, but he asked no questions and picked no scabs over the festering wounds of the past.

"Master?"

Claude doesn't have to remind Alois of his existence. His presence in the boy's thoughts has been so consuming that it left Alois no room to ponder about anything else. He isn't certain that trend will continue in the future.

Alois ignores the prompt to speak and turns away, choosing to study the bleak surroundings.

 


	3. Fest-inate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys. The fic warnings have changed. Please keep in mind.
> 
> Compliment me on my ~~clever~~ choice of title and chapter names.

“Your Highness?”

Claude attempts to engage him in conversation once more, but Alois winces and brushes him off with a flick of his hand. He wants no prying as to what happened. In fact, he doesn't want anything at all, except being left alone. Where the small space of the carriage seemed so convenient before, now he cannot wait to get the butler out of his sight.

“Master, I was wondering...”

“Oh what is it, Claude? Be done with that muttering already.”

“I wished to inquire if any special arrangements as to your meal should be made.”

“I am not hungry.”

“You will be come nighttime.”

“Alright. So serve it at six, as usual.”

“May I suggest eight o'clock as a more fitting time for a Christmas supper?”

“Fine. Make it eight,” Alois replies lazily. He senses Claude's wish to add something, but he cannot bring himself to care.

Alois tries to get out of the carriage once it comes to a stop, but Claude blocks the door with his arm.

“Allow me, master,” he says calmly and gets on the ground first. Then, turning around, he stretches both arms out towards Alois.

“What do you think you are doing?” the boy demands. “Oi. Put me down!”

Alois shrieks as if his butler's hands burnt him through the pristine gloves and layers of his own clothing. Had he not found out that Claude considered him no more than vermin, the demon's touch would be welcome. Alois has no intention of indulging Claude's whims now. He smacks his forearms, legs dangling in the air as he is picked up and placed on the ground.

“I will not tolerate this in the future, Claude,” Alois grunts, straightening his coat as if to erase the touch. “Do know your place.”

“Apologies, master, but I thought...”

“Your job is not to _think,_ Claude. As you have pointed out this morning, I have contracted you for your skills and not opinions. Learn how to be consistent.”

The sight of Claude bowing, his head lowered with fake remorse gives Alois no joy. He feels numb. Even his scolding, spoken half-heartedly, loses his harshness.

Alois walks back to the mansion and up to his room. He calls for Hannah, not even raising his voice as he catches a glimpse of her purple skirts disappearing around the corner.

“Help me undress,” he commands, pushing the heavy doors to his bedroom. Hannah fidgets, not rushing to help him. Alois turns his head. He looks at the object in her hands, a small bundle and a stripe of a red ribbon. “What's this?”

“I was... preparing a present for you, master.”

He eyes the maid from head to toe, searching for a hidden meaning in her words.

“That is very considerate of you. Put in on the bed and help me with the coat.” Hannah pulls the fabric off him as Alois shrugs it off. She untangles the laces and the ribbons of his boots, fetching his slippers and sliding them onto the boy's feet.

“M-master? Are you crying?”

He paid the wetness on his cheeks no mind until the maid's stuttered question.

“That will be everything.” Alois jerks his chin at the gift resting on top of his bed. “Put it under the tree with the rest.”

Hannah doesn't argue and leaves when she's told she's dismissed. Alois vaguely wonders why her quiet obedience used to irritate him. Today, he finds her lack of thinking or arguing to be refreshing.

He lies on the bed, spreading his arms out. The ceiling in his bedroom is smooth, giving his eyes nothing to rest upon. Alois closes them, his mind blank. How pointless that his heart keeps beating, and his chest rises and falls, stretching the moments of his life.

He must have dozed off, as a knock on the door startles him. Alois flexes his fingers while Claude announces that the supper has been served. He sighs, rubbing his lids.

“Yes, I will be there shortly.”

The table is served for one but holds more food than Alois could eat in a week. He looks at it impassively, neither the steaming roasted turkey nor the sweet smell of pudding stirring his appetite. Claude puts food on his plate, but the boy doesn't touch it.

“May I ask what is amiss, Your Highness?”

“Hmm?”

“You are not eating.”

“I won't be needing you for the rest of the evening, Claude.” Alois pushes his plate towards the center of the table, facing away.

“What isn't to your liking, master?”

Claude's hand carefully nudges his chin, coaxing Alois to turn his head. The boy jerks free.

“I said you were dismissed.” He gets up but Claude seizes him by the wrist. “Let go!”

Claude's hand grabs and pinches his cheeks harder as he bends down, bringing their faces together.

“Do **not** ignore me,” he snarls.

“Or what?” Alois blinks in surprise. The odd switch up of their roles, where it is Claude seeking attention is mildly amusing, but he wants none of that. He tries to wriggle free, but the grip of the butler's fingers on his arm tightens. “You will beat me? Or stuff me with the food you cooked like a Christmas turkey before you eat me? Do you really think you can do any damage that hasn't been inflicted on me before?”

“Must I remind Your Highness that as much as I'd like to feast on you, our contract has not been fulfilled yet?”

“Screw your contract! Release me this instant, damn you!” Alois feels the sigil on his tongue heat up. There is a sparkle of satisfaction in Claude's eyes as he follows the order, uncurling his fingers. “Ugh. This bloody deal! I wish I have never made it!” The more the boy raises his voice, the more smug the demon looks. The unspoken taunting is unbearable. “If this stupid mark is the only thing that binds us, I'll put an end to this right now!”

Alois grabs the vial of vinegar from the table. He will burn the mark off his tongue, he will cut it off if that is what required finish this misery. Claude knocks it out of his hand before the first drop of vinegar hits his tongue. Alois's vision blurs as tears collect in his eyes. He feels stupid, especially so under his butler's glare.

“Just let me be or let me die already.”

“Oh, master,” Claude drawls over the boy's sobbing. He unhurriedly pulls his glasses off, folding them and tucking them into his breast pocket. “I love how heated you can get,” he adds in a confiding whisper. His palms cradle Alois's face, holding it gently this time. “And how complicated where need not be.”

Alois freezes when Claude leans over and presses their lips together. It's just a careful touch, a sweet brush across his mouth that makes the boy's stomach flutter. He elicits a broken sigh, unconsciously rising on his toes and stretching his neck to get more. Despite the chastity of the kiss, his blood is rushing. He clings onto the lapel's of Claude's tailcoat, shivering with excitement. Alois feels those thin lips stretch in a smile. The sense of wrongness downs on the boy.

“You are toying with me again, aren't you?” he blurts out, pushing the man away.

He imagined Claude smiling before. He demanded it, pleaded for it, but actually seeing the grin sends a chill down his spine. It isn't so much the curve of those pale lips as the contrast between the smirking mouth and Claude's condescending eyes that fail to reflect the warmth of the candlelight.

“I am not your plaything, Claude!”

The mesmerising smile remains. Alois finds it infuriating, but he wishes he could trace it with the tip of his tongue, to taste it and to ensure that it indeed is real. As if Claude was able to read his mind, he slowly swipes his tongue over his upper lip. It is vulgar yet dangerous; a gesture of a predator about to sink his teeth into his prey.

“Kneel,” Alois hisses. His own knees all but buckle as Claude gracefully lowers himself without any hesitation, his confidence not wavering a bit. They are face to face now, at the same level, although Alois has no doubt the demon believes himself to be superior.

His eyes are locked with Alois's, causing the hair on the back of the boy's neck stand on its end. Claude is beautiful in his silent submission, yet the challenge in his stare suggests he thinks it a game. Alois grits his teeth, the surge of desire to break him pumping through his veins.

“Undress.” Again, there is no pretense of Claude mishearing the order or asking for clarification. He begins with his gloves, raising his hands to his mouth and tugging on the tiny buttons with his teeth to undo them. Alois notices the tip of Claude's tongue press to the skin of his wrist. “What are you, the town harlot? I asked you to undress and not to put up a cheap show.”

Claude's nostrils flare, but the flash of anger – if he's capable of feeling that – doesn't affect him. He sheds one glove, exposing the glossy blackness of his nails. The other one is discarded quicker, with a tug that reveals the Faustian mark.

“Go on, I haven't got all night to wait for you to comply with the simplest of tasks,” Alois urges. He tries to mask his quickened breaths with the scorn of his words. Claude tilts his head to the side slightly. As his tailcoat and shirt are removed, Alois gets the most ridiculous sensation that it is him being put on display.

“Give me your suspenders.”

The ease with which Claude complies makes the boy's head dizzy. He never suspected that the power over someone could be so inebriating.

“Now kneel.”

“But you have already brought me to my knees, Your Highness.”

“Quiet!” Alois yaps. The snide remark cuts into him, the rage colouring his vision red. How dare he mock him now. The memory of every little taunt, each of the tiniest condescending quips that casually slip from Claude's mouth ring through him. He had enough of being forgiving, ignoring the venom dripping from the demon's tongue. He will make him regret it. “On all fours, facing away. Do not move otherwise.”

Alois studies the pale slope of Claude's back before him. It's easier when he doesn't see his face, although he does wonder if the creature is still grinning. The boy's fingertips hover over the plane of flesh offered. Once again, he notes how smooth his skin appears, so perfectly unblemished that it doesn't look real. He longs to touch it out of sheer curiosity, but he snatches his hand away.

Alois raises his arm and brings it down swiftly. The fabric of the suspenders cuts through the air with a swoosh. Claude arches, throwing his head back when the metal buckles connect with his skin with a snap. He brings his shoulder blades together but quickly hunches back into a deceivingly relaxed pose. Alois lets out a shaky breath.

The first blow startled them both but did little damage. So Alois strikes him again. And again. Showering him with them, hitting him over and over until he himself begins to pant and his shoulder hurts. Claude remains stubbornly quiet. Alois jeers when he sees his butler's fingers curl into the carpet's hair, getting a fistful. This and his sharp nasal exhales betray he is feeling anything at all.

The jagged red crosses over Claude's back are not nearly enough. In a frenzy, Alois collapses onto his knees. He doesn't want to see Claude's head hung low and his body unmoving. He craves the snarls of pain and raw emotion – hatred, anger, _anything_ but masked contempt.

Alois is practically trembling as he bends over Claude. His arms wrap around him in a mock embrace, careful not to touch him. The boy groans as his unbending fingers fumble with the clasp of the butler's belt. He curses as the wretched thing won't come loose and wheezes a victorious “ _ha!_ ” when it finally becomes undone.

The belt does work better. It crackles like a whip and Claude rocks forward when it lands below his left shoulder blade. Alois's mouth goes dry. The leather leaves clearer imprints that swell up and deepen in colour almost immediately.

The boy chuckles at the thought that the sounds echoing through the dining room resemble applause. Each clap adds to the pleasant sting low in his stomach. He feels the heat pulse within him, and bares his teeth in a grimace.

“Beautiful,” Alois murmurs to himself. But perhaps, not beautiful enough.

The boy flips the belt around, holding onto the other end. The first strike is unsuccessful and poorly aimed, as the belt curls around Claude's ribcage. The one that follows is better placed. Claude shudders before he can stop himself when the edge of the metal buckle breaks his skin and draws blood.

“Oh.” Alois watches the bead of blood growing fuller. Amazing, how such a tiny puncture can change the whole picture. Only then he notices other things – the sheen of perspiration on Claude's skin. His own wet ragged breaths. Claude's hair plastered to the back of his neck with sweat. How tight his own breeches got. The boy reaches down, adjusting himself. It causes Alois to believe that he failed at his punishment and Claude got an upper hand even when doing nothing at all.

Alois strikes him again. The blows lack the previous passion, but they cause more wet redness to blossom across Claude's back. Exhausted, the allows his arm to drop at his side since each movement only intensifies the throbbing pain in his shoulder.

“Claude,” he sighs, draping himself over the demon's back. His skin is slick under Alois's cheek yet he still nuzzles him. Tentatively, he pets the swollen ridge of one of the wounds, tracing them with his fingertips. “You are so beautiful,” Alois repeats wistfully, although the word doesn't seem fitting. “Perfect,” he adds, and this rings more true. Alois spreads his fingers, gently placing his palm over the tense muscles. “And mine.” His confession is met by silence. Alois curls his fingers, digging them into Claude's back. When it does nothing, he drags his nails down, pressing hard. “Aren't you, Claude?”

Claude arches as if to get away from the assaulting fingers. It makes the curve of his lower back more pronounced. Alois whimpers as the pressure on his groin increases.

“Claude,” he pleads. Forgiveness or permission, he feels the need to ask, not demand. His hips push forward on their own. His body twists with pleasure as the grinds against Claude's rear.

Alois straightens, using both of his hands to swirl the translucent redness over the perfectly sculpted body. The dull ache of need grows low in his belly. A single thought pulses in his brain. Claude is his, _his_ , now more than ever, bearing his markings. So agreeable, but still unyielding.

Alois drags his fingers down the shallow crevice over the demon's backbone. There is a growl even Alois cannot mistake for agreement when his fingers dip under the belt of Claude's trousers, which slid below his waist but still hold on his hips.

The boy presses himself flush against the fabric he clutches the waistband, slowly peeling it off. The tremor in his fingers won't subside. Alois bites his bottom lip, holding back the pathetic noises born in his throat. Just a hint of clean unbroken skin captured between the angry red and over the dull black stripe of Claude's trousers is enough to have the boy teeter on the brink of sanity. The decision is made in split second; or, rather, the insistent heat in his groin decides everything for him.

Alois pushes down on Claude's spine, beckoning him to stay in place as he jolts up. He knocks things off the table it his haste, his fingers curling around the smooth cool glass. The oil that coats his fingers runs down his wrists and soaks the cuffs of his shirt. Alois dumps the whole vial onto his hands, the streams of amber escaping between his fingers and dripping onto his legs and carpet. He cannot bear to look at them any more than he can cope with the idea that what he intends to do is about to happen for real.

Alois hunches over Claude, his slippery digits yanking the butler's trousers down. He should have applied the oil later, or at least saved some, as the fabric soaks it up from his fingers. No matter. Alois is burning with impatience. He tries to distract himself, not to stir his mind further with images of what he is doing. He drags his tongue across Claude's back, yet the sharp saltness fails to sober him up. Alois senses Claude's body go rigid when his fingers spread and rub, moving around blindingly. He snarls when instead of withdrawing, the boy's fingers push forward.

It's awkward and different, so different from how it would feel if Alois were to do that to himself. He is inapt at the task, but it is the best he can do. Once his digits pass through the resistance of the muscles, they get sucked in by the delicate heat.

Alois whimpers at the sensation of having his fingers squeezed. He can barely move them. Alois's body spasms in attempt to contain his enjoyment, his abdomen twitching as if there was an invisible string connecting his fingers and his loins. Another careful wiggle of his fingers winds that string taut. He pauses, resting his forehead against Claude's back. Several moments later, filled with his loud breaths, the boy is able to rotate his wrist, gradually working his fingers out and sliding them further in.

Despite best intentions, that is all Alois can muster. It's almost as if Claude's body is fighting intrusion, but that spurs the boy on. He is still quivering. The beads of sweat that collected on his brow, slide down and get in his eye, stinging. Alois blinks rapidly. It takes him a moment to deal with the buttons of his fly. A nudge forward against the slippery surface abandoned by his fingers, leaves him nested between Claude's buttocks.

Alois makes another attempt, jabbing his hips with more persistence. He claws at Claude's waist, desperately holding onto him and he sinks deeper in. He tries to pace himself, not to succumb to the sensation of his length being clenched with so much force, it borders on pain.

“Gh-aah.”

Alois shivers when his pelvis comes in contact with Claude's behind. He squeezes his lids shut until chaotic white sparkles swirl behind them. Only then does he open his eyes and rocks back slightly. There is a ripple of muscle under Claude's skin in response. His nails scrape against the carpet and Alois doesn't know how to interpret this. He mewls as he sways with little momentum, the extraordinary feel of being inside enough to send continuous jolts of pleasure through his limbs.

Pathetic, broken noises spill from his dry lips. Alois seeks ways where he could move without the embarrassing staccato of his sobs, but the building pleasure engulfs him completely. The heat spreads through him, licking up his back and slithering to his toes; even his face is burning up. It threatens to consume him whole, terrible and irreversible. Alois struggles to escape it, angling his hips differently as if to pull away. His body doesn't cooperate, following it's own purpose. It drives forward, having him go deeper still. Claude grunts at the swift thrust.

It's all that takes to push Alois over the edge. He shudders, the pure concentrated bliss crushing down on him. He jerks and thrashes helplessly, like a butterfly pinned to a wall, his body letting go of the tension with a sweet agony.

“Ohh... oh god.” Alois's heart drums against his ribcage, ready to burst through. Clumsily, he tucks himself back into his clothes. The prolonged silence concerns him, but the words scatter away. “C-claude?”

Alois knows he won't hear anything good. He braces himself for a snide remark or a comment that will shatter the scraps of his confidence. Claude remains in the same position. Alois moves to the side, trying to catch a glimpse of his face.

“Oh no.” The dry itch in the back of his throat makes it harder to speak. “Oh please no.”

Alois hides his face in the crook of his elbow. He thinks he's gonna be sick from realization of what exactly he has done and disgust with himself. He scowls at the acidic taste in his mouth, the intakes of breath through his nose short and rushed.

“Claude,” he whines. Momentarily pleasure doesn't come close to the twisting pain of guilt. He did order Claude to stay quiet and not to move, but... Alois doesn't know what this “ _but_ ” is, his illusions too alluring and easy to believe. Not that he applied any judgment. He slowly releases his breath. Alois reaches out but doesn't dare to touch Claude. “Say something? I... I-uh... cancel my previous order? Y-you can move and...”

Alois gulps when Claude pulls his trousers up, shifting to sit on his folded legs. He straightens his back and moves his shoulders as if to assess the damage that has been done. The corners of mouth are drooping as his thin lips twist with scorn. Alois's hands turn clammy. He senses a threat in those deliberate, unhurried movements, his shame only intensifying.

“Are you properly satisfied, Your Highness?” Alois's hands curl into fists in his lap. He sobs dryly, lowering his head to avoid Claude's glare. “Even if I am such an insult to your eyes, I must say Earl Trancy has raised a successful match of his.”

“I'm sorry!” Alois wraps his arms around himself, rocking from side to side. Reproach burns him and he wishes he could become small and invisible. His voice is weak and pitiful, although that hardly makes up for anything. “I-i didn't mean to!”

“Shut up,” Claude snaps. The disrespectful growl startles Alois more than the hand that seizes his throat. Claude lifts him by the neck and drags him forward with no effort. The boy has no choice but to meet the demon's eyes, his pupils flashing deep scarlet that makes Alois's insides turn cold. “You _reek_ of lust,” Claude declares bluntly. He drags his tongue across Alois's cheek and up to his temple. Claude's face and mouth are tainted red when he pulls away. He shuts his eyes, licking his lips clean from his own blood and Alois's tears, letting out a low rumbling noise. “Remorse does sharpen the taste, although that isn't my preference.”

Alois cries out as his right wrist is caught in a steel grip. When Claude pushes his thumb down on the boy's Adam's apple, the scream dies away. The panic paralyzes Alois, but there is little he can do in demon's clutches. For the first time he truly dreads his power. There isn't enough air in his lungs to utter a command to stop. And even if there were, Alois doubts he would. He feels he deserves it, even though he fears the pain of broken bones.

Claude allows him to take a breath, uncurling his fingers. He yanks Alois's hand towards himself, guiding it down. The boy's eyes go wide as it comes to rest over the bulging fabric of Claude's trousers. He palms the mass of hard flesh trapped beneath. Claude doesn't tolerate his fumbling. He covers Alois's palm, urging him to apply more pressure. The boy hisses through his teeth as his fingers crack.

Claude pulls the flaps of his trousers down. He spits into Alois's palm, making the boy wince from the crude gesture. He doesn't try to object. Claude forces the boy's slick hand to wrap around his cock. Alois's fingers barely close around the girth, but he has no time no ponder over it. Claude's hand squeezes him, having the boy clench him harder than he'd dare to imagine. If fingers can bruise, his are certain to turn black and blue.

Alois's hand is crushed in Claude's grip, a mere obstacle between the demon and his pleasure. But perhaps, Claude finds twisted satisfaction in hurting him. He yanks and presses, grinding fragile bones of the boy's hand together to elicit yelps of pain. The rigid length in Alois's grip twitches in response, and Claude mirrors the sounds with grunts of his own.

There isn't anything remotely refined in his actions. Claude sets a quick, urgent pace in his single-minded pursuit of egoistic enjoyment. Alois struggles to keep up, his hand turning numb from the disruption of the normal blood flow. He whimpers, the joints of his shoulder screaming in protest.

Claude's other hand moves from the boy's throat to the nape of his neck. He tugs on his hair, forcing Alois's head back. He snarls as fresh tears caused by the sharp pull trickle down Alois's cheeks. Made to look at Claude, Alois doesn't recognize him. That isn't a face of his butler. Claude's features are twisted with raw hunger, primal and animalistic, replacing the mask of a detached servant. Alois gasps, his stomach turning with horror and a prickle of dark excitement.

Wet, slapping noises fill in the room. Even then, there is enough modesty left in Alois to have his cheeks heat up. The corners of Claude's mouth curl up in amusement, but his eyes remain just as piercing. They dissect Alois, prying his soul open, bringing to light every hideous flagrant fantasy he ever had. Somehow, it is even worse than the dull ache in his hand, almost too much to bear.

Claude tilts his head to the side, bending down to drag the tip of his nose against Alois's throat. He huffs, his warm breath tickling the boy's skin. Alois trembles as his neck is nuzzled, the contrasting gentle touch so far off from the painful manipulations of his hand.

Alois squeals when Claude's teeth sink into the flesh over the juncture of his neck and shoulder. As if to make it even more excruciating, Claude moves his head from side to side slightly until Alois howls. The bite is probably hard enough to pierce the skin and tear through it. The stab of pain that shoots down Alois's side makes it impossible to tell.

Claude licks up his neck, rubbing his tongue over the wound. It sends conflicting sensations through Alois. He instinctively shies away, but Claude secures him in place by firsting his hand in the boy's hair harder.

"Claude." The words scrape Alois's chest, his voice hoarse. They hold no purpose, for he doubts anything he says will matter. "Claude, please."

"Stop it!"

The slide of their joined hands over the demon's cock quickens regardless of the command.

"Claude, pl... Ah!" Alois feels the teeth nip him under his jaw, a lot lighter this time, but not diminishing the danger of pain to come. "Cla-aude," he repeats, purposefully slow, even if he cannot fully muster his voice.

"What exactly are you calling my name for?" Claude's breath ruffles his hair, causing Alois's skin to break into goosebumps. "Ma-aster," he adds with a sneer.

The question whispered into his ear is oddly intimate, as if only now he realized their proximity. It is the closest they've come to an embrace. Alois squirms in a futile attempt to get comfortable. There is less of the pain now, his body getting accustomed to it or the confusion wiping it away. He extends his left arm, curling his hand around Claude's forearm and sliding it up. He meets the demon's fist tangled in his hair, stroking the knuckles almost lovingly.

"Claude."

"Shut up."

"Cla-aude."

"I said shut it!"

Alois wriggles, contorting and arching. He turns his head to the side, coaxing Claude to alter his grip until he can press his lips to the inside of demon's forearm.

"Claude," he repeats recklessly. Alois shuts his eyes with a sigh. He anticipates a strike to his face or another assault of teeth on him. Nothing happens. He presses his lips to the smooth skin a little firmer, a little braver this time.

"Do - not," Claude raps. He clenches Alois's hand still wrapped around his cock, steadying him. He makes a sound, anguished and guttural, as the first spill of hot fluid drips onto the boy's hand. Claude makes no more noise as their joined hands resume their mad fast pump, even as Alois's arm gets coated in his thick ropey release.

As soon as it ceases, Alois is shoved away. Almost falling on his back, he braces himself on his left arm to keep upright and raises his right hand to his eyes. He studies the glistening drops, alien on his skin. His hand throbs with resumed ache as the blood rushes to his digits, yet the boy's lips stretch into a smile. He giggles, but restrains himself. Claude wouldn't understand his laugher, most likely misinterpreting it.

Alois's eyes shift to Claude, and he takes him in hungrily. It's a glorious sight, from reddened skin on his shoulders due to occasional whips it received to the broad heaving chest. Alois wonders how he must look. He touches his wet fingers to his neck, rubbing it over the pulsing marks the demon's teeth have probably left.

He wants to crawl into Claude's lap and kiss him, to leave an equal mark of his own, though he knows better than to test his patience like that. Still, the boy ignores his scowl and a grunt of a warning when he crawls towards Claude, laying his head on the demon's hip. He curls into a ball and relaxes instantly, when his butler makes no move to shake him off.

Alois knows there will be no soothing kisses or petting his hair. There won't be any apologies, muttered or screamed, sincere or false. But it is fine.

He is fine.


End file.
